Bag of Limbs
by Saber Wing
Summary: Alistair finds something interesting in the Deep Roads; the contents of which are just disturbing enough to send him over the edge. DAWC writing challenge.


_**Author's Note: **_All right, everyone. Another fun writing prompt it is ^_^. This was to write a story about one of the many random items you pick up in Dragon Age that seemingly have nothing to do with anything. I opened my inventory…and two minutes later, realized that it was comedy _gold. _

Bag of Limbs. I saw that, and my jaw dropped. Perfect ;)

_**Bag of Limbs**_

Alistair hated the blighted Deep Roads. He _really, really _did.

With an air of weary indifference, he marched along behind Solona, alert enough to react if they should come across more darkspawn, but only just. His head felt as if it had been smashed beneath one of those ginormous Paragon statues they'd passed along the way. His right leg throbbed, and his ribs ached from recent, half-healed wounds. His sword arm shook as he absently fiddled with a gauntlet, and Alistair was _itching _to take this armor off and just soak in a hot bath forever_. _He even thought about asking Solona if they could rest for a minute, but damned if he was going to be the one to duck out first.

Why? Because he was a stubborn idiot, that's why. Oh, why in the name of the Maker hadn't he let Oghren take first _and _second watch last night?

Alistair rubbed his face with his hands, fighting to keep himself alert. When was the last time he'd really slept? He didn't have the slightest clue. Maybe he could doze a bit while walking. Oghren might agree to watch his back if Alistair promised to treat him to a night at the pub or something.

_Sleep, I know we've been having some problems lately, but I miss you. Please take me back. Don't make me beg, because I will if it means you'll give me another chance._

Unable to stop himself, he groaned helplessly, prompting a few questioning glances from his companions. Who was he kidding? Might as well resign himself to another few days of two hour cat naps.

"Alistair, are you holding up all right? You did take watch duty for three nights in a row. We've covered a lot of ground today, so we could afford to stop if you need to rest. I don't want you to get hurt due to carelessness," Solona murmured with concern, resting a hand on his cheek. He covered it with his own, flashing her a smile he didn't quite feel. As tempting as the thought was, he wanted this horrible trip to hell over as quickly as possible. The sooner they found Branka, the sooner they could get out of here. Besides, it was his own damn fault he'd decided to volunteer for watch duty so often. He'd made the decision. He was going to man up and deal with it.

"I'll be fine, love. Just hand me one of those awful tasting concoctions you insist on carrying around, and we can move on."

Solona shook her head, rolling her eyes in exasperation, but she handed over a stamina draught without another word. Soon they were moving once again, and although he was still a little shaky, he no longer felt as if his head was floating in the nonexistent clouds.

Until he saw it.

Propped against a far wall, illuminated by the staves Solona and Wynne extended before them, was a sack. A disgusting, taint-infested, putrid smelling, cloth sack. It was stained with what looked to be ancient, dried-up blood, and seemed to be stuffed to the brim with…well, _something._

_Don't do it, Alistair. It's a trap. Whatever is in there is not worth you walking over to open it. You don't want to know. You DON'T want to know. _

Oh, sod it. He really wanted to know.

With an air of resignation, he slowly crept closer to the bag, Oghren, Solona, and Wynne halting their advance questioningly.

"What in the name of Andraste's tits are you doin', kid?" Oghren grumbled, approaching where Alistair was crouched next to the bag. Solona held up a hand before he could get any closer.

Wynne gripped her staff tighter, face set in stone. "Be careful, Alistair. It might be some sort of trap. Blood magic, perhaps."

Alistair nodded. That seemed plausible. Whatever this was, it couldn't be anything good. He supposed they could just leave it there, but that seemed wrong somehow. What if it _was_ some sort of blood magic, and some poor dwarf happened upon it by chance? Unlikely, since they were in the Dead Trenches, but better to do away with it themselves just in case.

With a grimace, he gripped the rope that held the top closed, tugged it off in one smooth motion…and everyone waited, weapons drawn. Tense.

A full second passed, then another and another, but nothing happened. Nothing at all. Exchanging a few confused glances with the others, Alistair extended a tentative arm, picked it up, peered inside…and almost puked all over the wall. He recoiled violently, covering his mouth with his hand.

"_Ugh. _Come on, really? Is there no end to the depravity of mankind as we know it?"

"What? What's in there?" Solona asked, moving closer so she could have a look. She looked away just as quickly, face scrunched in disgust. "Ew. I mean, _really _eww."

"It's just a bunch of sodding _limbs._ They had to have been here for _years_, but they look like this was done days ago, so there has to be some kind of magic involved. Maker, look at them! The flesh is all flayed and decaying, and _eww, _there's still hair on that arm. Ugh, I'm going to puke. Who does this kind of thing for _fun? _Who just sits down one day and decides, 'Hey, I think I'm going to dismember some people, stick all of their arms and legs into a bag, make sure they rot just enough for the smell to be putrid, then _leave it here _for the next poor son-of-a-bitch who passes. The look on their face will be _priceless._' What is _wrong _with the world? How did this get here? Some darkspawn emissary with a weird fetish? Gah, I hate the Deep Roads. I sodding _hate _the Deep Roads. We don't really need the dwarves, do we? Let's just leave and forget _any _of this ever happened. I don't give two shits about who becomes the next king. Let them figure that out. I don't need this crap…"

Alistair ranted, on and on and _on. _He continued after Solona gently coaxed him away. He continued as the others set up camp. He continued through Oghren's muttered, 'poor sod is off his rocker,' and he continued as Solona and Wynne made up a bed for him and helped him into it.

"…and what is _with _that, anyway? Why don't those two wastes of space just kill each other and save us the trouble? What do we have to do to settle this and move on to something important, like, I don't know, _stopping the Blight_? I hate the Blight."

"Alistair…"

"I hate the Archedemon."

"Alistair?"

"I _sodding hate _the sodding Deep Roads. And have I mentioned that I _hate the Deep Roads?_!"

"Alistair!"

Solona's voice broke through the haze of delirium and Alistair stopped, eyes bleary, so unfocused, he couldn't even see straight. The weariness seeped into his bones until he was nothing but a lump, of tired, hulking flesh. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. When did all of this end? When would he get to feel as if he were whole again? He was so ridiculously _exhausted, _and he wasn't just talking about not getting any sleep, either. He always tried to ignore these inner feelings of despair. He tried _so _hard. But every day, he found it just little bit tougher to mask everything beneath a laugh or a smile.

"Shh, it's okay. Go to sleep, all right? You'll feel better when you wake up. You just need some rest, I promise."

"But…but the limbs, and the bag, and the decay of society and humanity as we know it. And…..and…and…" Alistair was almost crying by the time he'd finished. Solona hushed him with a finger to his lips, settling him down into the blankets and kissing his forehead as she held him close.

"I shouldn't have let you drive yourself so hard. Not enough to eat, practically no sleep, recovering from wounds that you received trying to guard Wynne and I. It was bound to catch up with you. The 'bag' just pushed you over the edge. This is as much my fault as it is yours. More so, actually. I'm sorry."

Alistair closed his eyes and snuggled closer to her, head in her lap as he sank under the covers. He groaned; a sound so soft, it could have been a whimper. "I'm tired. I'm so tired, Solona."

"Shh, I know. Sleep, sweetheart. Just sleep."

"If I died, you wouldn't put _my _limbs in a bag, would you?" he murmured, voice so soft it could almost be called child-like.

Solona chuckled tenderly as she brushed a blond hair away from his face. "Of course not."

Alistair grinned sleepily. That sure was nice of her. "Mmm. Love you."

Solona pressed a kiss to his temple, and some part of him registered the fact that she was conjuring a spell, but he didn't much care right now. All he knew was, he could feel himself drift into a comforting sort of darkness, but not before he heard the words that carried him away. Those wonderful, beautiful words; the ones that always turned his pretended happiness into something _real._

"I love you. Sleep well, my heart."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I didn't originally mean for this to take a serious turn, but you know how things go with writing. Alistair and Solona made me do it ;)

Thanks for reading! As always, if you see any typos/grammatical errors, please let me know and I'll fix them. I do miss things sometimes, as everyone does.


End file.
